


Mother Knows Best

by overthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Do they..., Gen, Mycroft-centric, No one ever does ask how Mycroft is doing, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 17:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's making an effort to visit him at work.  That's unusual, but then again, it's good for appearances to look into her grieving remaining son, right?  She is a Holmes, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Knows Best

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to #antidiogenes for putting up with me complaining about stabbing Mycroft. Don't worry, no one gets actually stabbed within, promise.  
> Inspired by [these comments](http://violinbows.tumblr.com/post/56787357574/mystradesss-geniusbee-is-it-supposed-to-break) on [this gifset.](http://ssherlock.tumblr.com/post/28639136299/hes-the-one-im-worried-about-helen-mirren)

It’s always quiet in the Diogenes Club; the private rooms are no exception, even if technically Mycroft is allowed to talk. He looks down at the newspaper in his lap; the headline blares, “Suicide of a Fake Genius.” The article isn’t the only thing that’s fake, but at least here he can take a break from the facade repressed grief, for a bit. There are no carefully planted cameras here to watch him not mourn.

There’s a knock on the door. Mycroft folds the paper gently and places it on his desk. “Come in,” he says. Time to school his face; he’s not expecting company.

Mother Holmes gently closes the door behind her. She settles herself in the chair in front of his desk and folds her hands over her crossed legs.

“Where is he?” Mother asks. Both their eyes flicker to the newspaper on Mycroft’s desk. No need to ask how she figured it out, not when she’s the one who taught them most of their best and earliest tricks.

“Where is he _now_?” Mother rephrases. 

Mycroft doesn’t bother smiling with his eyes. He knows Mother can read the late nights he’s been spending at the office in the crumples in the sleeves of his suit and the lines under his eyes. There’s no need to lie to the person who taught him how to be an excellent liar.

“I don’t know, but I think he will show up eventually,” Mycroft says, which is the truth of some sorts. As Mother taught him, he leaves out the rest: Sherlock had stolen a page of Mycroft’s CCTV printouts, routine surveillance of John, tucked it away in his pocket; five thousand pounds are missing from one of his accounts; at some point he’s sure his assistant booked plane tickets, but he’s made an effort not to look where they’ve gone. 

Mother tilts her head and gives him A Look; his ice man facade and polite regret must be painfully see through, oh dear. Mycroft must be polite though, because it would be unseemly to grieve when there is always more work to be done, more brothers to hide. “How is John?” Mother asks, because it would be impolite to ask how Mycroft is doing. It would be more impolite to ask what she already knows. 

Mycroft looks down at the desk. His assistant left his handwritten dayplanner in the drawer. He should start making arrangements for the funeral, save John from looking closely at the paperwork. Yesterday is yesterday; tomorrow Mrs. Hudson will contact him wanting to know what is to be done with Sherlock’s things. 

Mycroft smooths the edges of the newspaper and gives Mother his politest smile.

“He’s the one I’m really worried about,” Mother says. Mycroft nods. No one needs to point out the necessity of this worry. (Of course John is the one everyone else is worried about; the soldier-doctor who survived Afghanistan should be the one everyone else is worried about.)

“I know,” Mycroft says. Another note on the agenda; perhaps with all the things piling up on is place, it might be necessary to take a break from being MI5 or the Secret Service for a while. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

Mother smooths the unwrinkled fabric of her dress and smiles with only her eyes. “I’ll just see myself out then,” she says.

“Afternoon,” Mycroft says. He doesn’t look up when the door clicks shut. He opens his desk, starts shuffling through its contents. Might as well take advantage of the silence to focus on what’s important.

**Author's Note:**

> Commenty goodness makes me happy enough to fly over a rainbow. Kudos does too.  
> [Tumblr Version, please reblog if you liked it.](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/67174007591)  
> Thanks for reading. I know this isn't the kind of fic most people would go looking after, but I hope you liked it.


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